


Trying To Be Brave

by anythingbutplatonic



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Body Image, Family, Fluff, Gen, Grief, Injury, Minor Character Death, PTSD flashbacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Some spoilers for s6, bereavement, dad!Oliver, father-son bonding, i made myself sad writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 02:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12026010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutplatonic/pseuds/anythingbutplatonic
Summary: William hadn't left his room in four days.





	Trying To Be Brave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexiaBlackbriar13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexiaBlackbriar13/gifts).



> Based on a prompt from alexiablackbriar13:
> 
> Prompt: WILLIAM SEEING OLIVER'S SCARS FOR THE FIRST TIMEEEEE.

William hadn't left his room in four days.

Each time Oliver had tried to coax him out, offering food and hot beverages and full control of the Netflix queue, he’d been met with silence on the other side of the door. He wondered whether William was feigning sleep, or engrossed in the comic books he kept in his backpack, or perhaps lying on his bed staring at the four walls and wishing he were anywhere but where he was.

It had been three weeks since Samantha died. Since he’d had to look his ten-year-old in the eye and tell him his mother hadn’t survived the final attack on Lian Yu, since he’d bought an apartment with an extra bedroom and had William’s things shipped from his old house to Star City because Oliver was the only family he had left now.

Guilt and worry gnawing at his stomach, Oliver had spent more time thinking about William than he had focusing on the day-to-day duties of being Mayor. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Adrian Chase aiming a gun to his own head. He went over those hours over and over again, racing through the wreckage to find his friends; Dinah, a deep cut on her head that had matted her long hair with blood; Rene, concussed and suffering from two fractured ribs; Curtis, having sprained an ankle while trying to run from the explosions; Felicity, minor burns on her hands and arms, the ends of her hair singed, a nasty bruise on her stomach from a fall onto jagged rocks.

Diggle, unconscious and not breathing, a neck wound that left a trail of blood and Oliver’s desperate attempts to perform CPR in the middle of the burning forest when his best friend’s heart stopped.

And he always circled back to William, the frightened boy whose entire world had been turned upside down all because his father was Oliver Queen.

There had been one thread of hope, however; on day three of William not leaving his room, Oliver had left a glass of orange juice for him outside the door. When he returned later that evening after a meeting, it was empty.

Done with the tasks required for the day, Oliver decided to head home and check on William, and see if he was perhaps up to talking or eating. On the way, he stopped by a small bakery that he and Felicity had often frequented, due to their cinnamon buns being, in Felicity’s words, “the best damn baked goods in the entire tri-state area”. He picked up a couple of the said buns, still warm from the oven, in the hope that something sweet and wonderful-smelling might cheer his son up, at least for a little while.

“William?” he called out as he stepped in the door. “I’m home!”

Nothing. Loosening his tie with one hand, he put the warm buns on the kitchen countertop and quickly checked his phone for any new messages - there were none - before switching on the coffee maker. It was a habit he’d picked up since they’d returned from Lian Yu and Felicity was coming over more and more often, and they’d act like shy teenagers on their first date as they held hands and shared tentative kisses, re-discovering what it was they’d lost between them over a year ago. It was wonderful, and exciting, and felt _new_ even though they’d been in love with one another now for almost four years.

It wasn’t something Oliver thought would ever get old.

With the coffee maker revving up, his discarded his jacket and tie and headed for the bathroom, intending to take a shower before Felicity inevitably showed up. Before he did, he knocked on William’s door.

“William, there’s some cinnamon buns in the kitchen if you want them,” he called. “Just help yourself, okay?”

Again, no answer came, but he heard the creak of bedsprings and some shuffling from inside the room. He thought he heard a book being snapped shut and the rustle of pages, or perhaps he wanted to hear them because he needed to know the poor boy was at least moving around and doing _some_ thing, even if he didn’t want to be in his company right now.

It was hard knowing how to help when they were both so new to the father-son arrangement. And with William’s mother gone…

Shaking his head to remove those kinds of thoughts from his mind, he went to the bathroom, undressed, and jumped in the shower, letting the almost-scalding water soothe him and take away some of his worries for a short time. The grime of the day washed down the drain and he took himself away from thoughts of City Hall and instead focused on the plans for that night’s patrols, which he, Felicity, and a bed-bound Diggle had decided on earlier. Dinah and Rene wanted to train before heading out, so Oliver would arrive at the bunker earlier to meet them, Felicity, Curtis, and Thea following later.

He must have stayed under the water longer than he’d realized, as it had turned from almost too hot to just warm, his skin lobster pink, bringing out the angry lines of the scars that littered his body. The newer injuries stung slightly under the spray, his muscles still a little achy and stretched tight.

Shutting off the water, he climbed out and reached for a towel, wrapping himself in it and padding across to his bedroom. He didn’t need to go out again until much later; wearing starched, pressed suits all day made him feel claustrophobic, the fabric of his formal shirts compressing his chest, like he was wearing a noose around his neck. Being able to step out of the constricting costume of a Mayor and into something he actually felt comfortable in always improved his mood and helped to take some of the edge off the thoughts that plagued his mind.

He still heard no noise or sounds of activity from William’s room, so he headed straight for the closet and started to change. Perhaps, he thought as he reached for a pair of soft pants, he should just let him work through his grief privately for now. Oliver didn’t want to push him into something he didn’t feel ready for, and if William was isolating himself from him, he didn’t want to provoke an adverse reaction by forcing him to communicate. From past experience, he knew that hunkering down against any attempt at intervention was usually the response to feeling pressured to share; he’d done it himself countless times, a protection mechanism against the pain and fear and anger and hurt that he knew would come pouring out if someone gave him the opportunity to talk.

It was only as he went to grab a shirt that he heard the squeak of wooden floorboards and a sharp intake of breath coming from behind him, a noise of surprise and horror that made his stomach twist...and then drop.

William was standing in the doorway, barefoot, his hair in disarray, one cheek creased with pillow marks where he had been lying on it. He gripped the doorframe tentatively, as if worried he might not be allowed to touch it, and was staring straight at Oliver’s chest with huge eyes, his face pale and greyish.

“What _are_ those?” he gasped, pointing at the scars that marked his father’s body. “Why are they so big? How did you get them?”

Oliver was at a loss for words. How to even begin to explain the jagged lines and misshapen marks of knife wounds, bullet holes, arrowhead piercings, and burns he’d accumulated over the years? How to explain to someone who was still a kid what human beings were capable of doing to one another?

Then, a tiny squeak, almost a whisper, left his son’s lips.

“Did _he_ give them to you?”

_He._ William meant Adrian Chase.

Oliver didn’t see the point in lying. Twisting his shirt in his hands, he braced himself. “Some of them, yes.”

Memories shoved themselves up to the surface of his mind; being held in chains for days, no food or water, lashes brought down on his bare skin and Chase laughing, grinning, his otherwise handsome face twisted with rage and hatred.

The blowtorch searing his chest where the Bratva tattoo was, his nostrils filling with the smell of his own burning flesh. Semi-consciousness from the pain.

More of Chase’s laughter, his taunting.

Showing him pictures of his friends, his family. Felicity’s glasses.

William’s picture from his elementary school.

A brutal kick to the ribs.

A small hand rested on his elbow. “Dad?”

He came out of the memory and realized he was shaking, his knuckles white where they gripped the item of clothing in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He thought he could taste blood at the back of his throat. “I’m sorry, William.”

Sniffing, William gripped his arm tightly, pressing his face into his skin. He could feel the tears that dripped down his son’s face, wetting him anew.

“I never wanted anything like this to happen to you,” Oliver said. “You do believe that, right?”

Without looking up, William nodded. Then, he let go of his arm, moving his hands to the scars on Oliver’s chest, touching them tentatively. He stopped for a moment on the pink line under his ribs, then the gash on his lower stomach. He opened his palm and placed it flat on the burn where the Bratva mark once was.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice thick with tears. “It looks like it hurts.”

Oliver shook his head. “Not so much anymore, but when it first happened...” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “it hurt like _hell_.”

William giggled wetly. “Mom said I’m not supposed to say those words.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” Oliver agreed. “But since it’s just us, I think we can make an exception.” He managed a small smile. “ _Only_ in the house though, okay? I don’t want to get a letter from your new teacher telling me you’re repeating bad language at school.”

…. _which is why it might be a good idea not to let Rene do any extensive childminding_ , he made a mental note for himself.

“Okay,” William said.

Oliver crouched down in front of him, taking his son’s small, white face in his hands, just as he had when he’d pulled him from Adrian on the boat. That time, he had been checking for physical injuries. Now, he was taking care of emotional ones.

“My scars….I know they’re scary, but you don’t have to be scared. I haven’t told you a lot about what I do, about the things I’ve done, but I will, because you deserve to know. But for now, you’ve had a lot of things happen to you and not a lot of time to process it, and if you feel like you need to talk, or want some space, or….you want to tell someone about your Mom, _please_ , talk to me.”

Oliver swallowed thickly around a lump that had suddenly risen in his throat. He stroked William’s cheek instinctively with his thumb, wiping away the residual tears there.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“Mmhmm,” William nodded quietly, blinking rapidly. Several more tears spilled over onto his cheeks, and Oliver wiped them away, like a father would.

Like the father that he _was_.

After a moment, Oliver stood up, stretching. “Okay. I’m gonna finish getting dressed, and then we can get something to eat. There’s some pastries in the kitchen if you want.”

“I know,” William replied, and a faint light came back into his eyes. “I can smell them.”

Oliver smiled, clapping him gently on the shoulder.  “Help yourself, kiddo. I’ll be right behind you.”

William turned to leave, and Oliver finished pulling on his shirt. Before he reached the doorway, however, he turned back around.

“You’re brave, aren’t you? My Mom said you were.”

_Brave._ What was bravery, anyway?

“I try to be,” was what Oliver said in reply.

 


End file.
